L'Euthanasie
by theivorytowercrumbles
Summary: Before Amélie is married, she and Angela have an affair. After Overwatch, everything changes.


The first time they met was in Paris.

For a third day in a row, a new country was under Angela's feet, landing with the intent to deliver a speech on nanobiology to those gathered at the operational centers of Médecins Sans Frontières – starting in Switzerland and working outward. While her discoveries about applying the new technology were met with equal parts concern and skepticism, the overall reaction was elation, and after being stormed by crowds of doctors from nearly every field of medicine around the clock, the need for some peace and quiet asserted itself and refused to relent. After shaking a particularly persistent reporter and setting her phone to ring for emergencies only, Angela ducked through half a dozen narrow streets before finding a small but cozy-looking café.

It was astounding how a simple cup of coffee and the daily paper could ground her within moments, but Angela found no cause to complain. The routine was comforting in any nation, even when she didn't read the language and to try had to suss out the meanings of articles by their accompanying pictures alone. She ordered something to eat halfway through the politics section, and although there was only one waitress attending everyone seated, the young woman was attentive without being overbearing. A small kindness in the full measure of things, but one Angela appreciated enough in the moment to add a gratuity to her bill.

"Are you Dr. Ziegler?"

The pen in her hand went still as Angela looked back over one shoulder, looking for the source of the unfamiliar voice speaking fluid Parisian French. A tall woman with dark hair was seated at the table behind her, newspaper folded between slender, manicured fingers. Angela didn't recognize her from any of the conferences, but there was no way to memorize every face in those constantly shifting crowds.

"I am, yes." She smiled, curiosity overstepping her desire for privacy. "How did you know?"

The woman turned her paper around, displaying a four inch high headshot of Angela herself below a bold-faced title of _Angel of Mercy: How Ziegler's New Technology Is Revolutionizing Medicine_. "Although I could already tell you were Swiss."

Now that curiosity was toying with her like a spider in a web. "You have me at a disadvantage. How so?"

"Your French. You murmur under your breath when you write, did you know?" Pointing to her own lips, the other woman gave a decisive nod. "First, you said _bonne-main_ instead of _pourboire_ , then _septante_ instead of _soixante-dix_."

"To learn so much from a single sentence. Are you a detective?" Angela asked.

The laugh that came in turn was nearly musical, lighting up hazel eyes to a daring gold. "No, doctor, not by far. I dance for a living. But I like listening to people when I'm out…trying to figure out who they are from fragments."

"We share that hobby, although it's a hazard of my profession, I'm afraid." For a second, Angela was hesitant to admit as such; she couldn't remember the last time she'd had a conversation on a topic other than work. "Will you tell me your name, or is that hidden in the paper as well?"

"Amélie." She replied, the twinkle in her gaze unfading. "But I didn't mean to keep you, Dr. Ziegler. I am sure you have more important places to be."

"Call me Angela, please." Plenty of physicians were very particular about their title, but at the moment, it only reminded her of duties elsewhere. "And for once, I don't."

Accepting Amélie's invitation back to her flat was impulsive, but Angela had experienced hospitality in dozens of countries, and always found it difficult to refuse. Human generosity was such a complicated thing, so often twisted by war and politics, and the simple joy of sharing another person's company, the intimacy of their home, was a much-needed reminder that the capacity for kindness existed in everyone. If there was another undercurrent in the promise of fresh bread and wine, she was content to see where it would lead – potential could be invigorating in and of itself.

"It's not much, I'm afraid." Amélie declared as she was lead through a narrow door, the singular one at the top of three flights of steps. "But it's close to the studio, and the old woman downstairs never raises the rent."

"I spend more time in tents than houses, Amélie." Never mind how often she fell asleep in her own lab, catching twenty minutes of shuteye between twelve hour rotations. "This is luxurious."

Less than ten steps in was the kitchen, from which Amélie promptly produced the promised wine and a pair of glasses. "Don't tell me they don't pay you. The whole world knows your name."

She sounded nothing short of offended, drawing a smile to Angela's lips. "I have more money than I know what to do with, but most of it goes to charity or my research. The rest…is an accountant's burden. I've never been the sort for mansions and sports cars."

"And here I am struggling to make principal." The wine was poured with a practiced hand, their eyes meeting during a brief toast; Angela was careful not to look away, for all it implied. "Although I expect that's to do with my director more than any amount of practice."

"An old stick in the mud, I wager?" She ended the question with a long sip, savoring the hearty red and all its undertones. Drinking was a rare vice, considering the chance of being called to an emergency surgery in need of impeccably sober hands.

"He says I move like a gymnast instead of a dancer. All force and no grace." True or not, the comment certainly explained the muscle trailing up Amélie's forearms, taut curves that could only come from years of dedicated exercise. "Not that he would ever notice a change with his eyes riveted to my partner's behind."

"Is there another company you could join?" Angela asked. She didn't know the first thing about dancing, but a change in environment solved plenty of ills.

A sigh slipped from Amélie's throat as she leaned forward on her free hand. "This is the one I wanted. Every year, we always experiment with something new, never getting swept up in the trends. It's exactly the kind of energy I was looking for, the adventure."

The wine was only half-drunk, not enough to loosen her tongue, and yet– "Is adventure why you invited me up to your flat?"

"I'm not subtle by half, am I?" Amélie's eyes blazed again, and she sounded more pleased than anything else. "Honestly, I thought you were going to turn me down."

"Your offer saved me from another lonely night in a hotel room that's far too large for one person." Perhaps a five-star bed would be better for this sort of thing, but Angela could only imagine what the photographers staked outside would think of it. Amélie didn't deserve that sort of spotlight. "As long as you know I can't stay."

It had been a problem before, elsewhere, when exchanged comfort blossomed into feelings she didn't have the luxury of returning.

"You don't have to stay." Amélie leaned across the table until they were only a breath apart. "As long as you don't leave me wanting."

"How can I promise that if I don't know your appetite?" She teased, setting aside her glass to ensure it wouldn't be spilled.

"You'll know soon enough, _chérie_." Heat coiled around the words, serving as a split second warning before Amélie drew her into a kiss.

Despite the token attempt, Angela's glass toppled over a moment later when the table was shifted, bumped by Amélie's hips as she was lifted up onto the polished wood and Angela stepped between her parted thighs. Months had passed since she touched anyone like this, using her whole body rather than just precise movements of her hands, calculated and clinical; learning someone's skin instead of their anatomy, encouraged rather than alarmed by a quickened pulse, the flush of heat rising to a wanting face. Clothes were shed in two unceremonious piles, done in haste so they could fit back together again.

"Aren't you scared?" Amélie murmured against Angela's mouth, nails tracing an empty pattern across her back. Circles on circles, layered like feathers.

That earned a low chuckle as she brought her mouth lower, sucking a dark mark above Amélie's collarbone, echoed by the imprint of her teeth. "Of what?"

"I could be some wicked corporate saboteur, trying to pry cutting-edge secrets out of you." When the comment ended on a light, almost ephemeral laugh, all the seriousness in her tone bled away.

Angela tilted her head up, fingertips drawing a straight line between Amélie's breasts. "Are you?"

Bright eyes rolled before Amélie found a grip in platinum blonde hair, drawing her mouth back down to explore. "Of course not, but wouldn't that be fun?"

For a dancer, she certainly had a penchant for the theatrical. "If so, you leave me no choice."

"That sounds dire." Amélie took being laid down against the table in stride, letting out a gasp as Angela kissed from breast to breast, then between the spaces of her ribs. "What are you going to do to me?"

Keeping track of this plot was taking more effort than Angela cared to admit, especially thus occupied with the lovely dips of Amélie's hipbones. "What am I to do? Seduce you? Bribe you? Promise the goodwill of the people?"

"I think the first gives you the best odds." Amélie gasped, legs hooking tight around Angela's hips.

Their little game fell by the wayside when she asked about where to find the bed – low to the ground to obscure a view inward from the balcony – and transformed playful syllables into moans and gasps, the desperate hiss of her name. Her knees dug deep into the worn mattress, balanced on its edge as Amélie stretched up towards the pillows, back arching with a flexibility that almost flustered Angela to the point of distraction. It was an easy and playful exchange, pleasure chased to one end before being turned on the other, and she couldn't remember the last time she enjoyed working up a sweat so much.

"Stay." Amélie mumbled in her ear after sundown became starlight, leaving them swathed in shadows and ruined sheets. "You're too much fun to be gone in the morning."

Silence stretched out between them for a long moment, but she couldn't find any real reason to refuse. "Alright."

One night ended up becoming three, drawn out to the last hour before Angela had to leave for Barcelona, called away by another conference.

–

The second time they met, Amélie had a ring on her finger.

Angela could hardly begrudge that, considering three years had flown by since their private weekend together, and any correspondence was regularly interrupted as she traveled around the world from one battlefield to the next, blood-drenched weeks slipping like sand between her fingers. There her mind was on clean water and transportation, codes of international conduct and keeping the name of every local warlord straight, not that intimate slice of relief. Still, she had taken comfort in their exchanged messages as a small anchor to bind her to one place in the world, even if Amélie upgraded from that corner flat long ago.

 _I'm engaged._ Six months before, one of the letters had said, yet the truth of it didn't sink in until she was in France again, making an excuse to the director of MSF about overseeing some research personally. No one begrudged her presence, although Angela spent a sum total of an hour in the lab before abandoning it for the new address Amélie had sent her, written in a distinct and flowing script.

It was another café, indistinguishable from a dozen copycats on nearby streets. She found Amélie in the farthest corner, back to a black wrought-iron railing with two cups of coffee already ordered. A smile tugged at the edge of Angela's mouth despite herself; Amélie had made coffee for her a sum total of twice, but the waiting cup was exactly the way she liked it. Yet a few things had certainly changed; Amélie's penchant for wearing all black was now offset by plentiful jewelry, custom pieces made from platinum and precious stone – including the ring half-obscured by the careful folding of her fingers.

"How long have you been with him?" Angela had endured the small talk and catch-up as long as she could, until the question was burning through her. It shouldn't have hurt in the least; long-distance flirtation certainly didn't comprise a relationship, even on the few occasions their video calls delved into the explicit. The only troublesome detail was that before that one letter, she'd had no idea Amélie was with anyone at all.

"Nearly a year now." Amélie said, gently blowing a coil of steam off her coffee. "I'm sure from your side of things, that seems too hasty."

She could have made a joke about the French and their passions, but none of them seemed appropriate. "Does it? My resolve barely lasted an hour."

Amélie's eyes brightened a touch. "True enough. Gérard is just…he's so full of life. Always flying around the world like you, neck-deep in his government business, but he always comes back to see my performances."

"Did you make principal?" Nothing had ever been said in their letters, Angela thought, but she often read them on the razor's edge of exhaustion.

"No." Her smile was more like a flinch, and Amélie started to toy with the band of her ring, turning it back and forth. "Which is why it's for the best, isn't it? I'm only going to get older, and there's only so many roles to take after a certain age."

Angela had no words of comfort to offer; it took decades for age to become any sort of burden in the medical field, when specialization and experience was prized so highly. "As long as he treats you well."

"Oh, he does." A bracelet jangled when she turned her wrist, and Amélie was quick to clarify. "Not just the dates or the jewelry – Gérard promised me adventure. I can travel with him whenever I like."

"What exactly does he do?" Angela asked.

"I…" Amélie considered for a moment, then shrugged. "I'm not sure. Something for our government, but he can't tell me exactly what until we're married."

When she set her cup down, the back of her hand brushed Amélie's fingers, and the split second of contact was like an electric shock. Three years of a held breath, never given the chance to exhale. "Does Gérard know about us? The letters, I mean."

"No." The admittance was soft, almost guilty. "Should I tell him?"

"Did you tell him about that weekend?" She already knew the answer, but it was unfair not to ask.

"It's none of his business." Amélie said, shaking her head. "It was only once, and he and I weren't together yet."

Angela couldn't help but arch a brow. "I recall it being far more than once. And most of it in quick succession."

A brilliant blush tapered up pale cheeks before Amélie playfully rapped her knuckles. "You're right. But that probably means we…"

"We should stop." Angela forced the finality into her words, made it real.

As soon as her coffee was finished, she excused herself, making ready to leave. There was a brief kiss, but no goodbyes. It was easier that way.

–

The second time would have been the last, if not for Overwatch.

Angela wasn't surprised that her continuing research attracted such attention, but their persistence had no match. She was practically promised the sun and stars themselves for volunteering her expertise, and as international resources were continuously funneled towards military efforts, many of the laboratories and think tanks that supported her work in the past were buckling under a lack of funding. Yet it wasn't until she was contacted by Reinhardt that the balance finally began to tip, and after several long video calls – interspersed with curses in German on both sides over the constantly dropped connection – that she accepted an invitation to their headquarters.

He was a grizzled warrior with decades of experience perpetuating the very violence she detested, but Angela had been blindsided by Reinhardt's open critique of the organization, holding Overwatch accountable for both their aggression and oversight. When it came to the militarization of their forces, discussed between them at length, Reinhardt ended his argument with, "You can never take the soldier out of anyone, Dr. Ziegler. Put ten of us in the same room and we'll fall into old habits. That is why we need someone like you."

"How so?" She followed him through one massive hall to the next, internally impressed by the size of the operation surrounding them. "Overwatch seems to want my research far more than me."

"Because it will do a lot of good, but the tech can only help so much without the right hands behind it." Reinhardt went silent for a moment, lost in his own thoughts, but Angela could tell he was working up the right way to say something. "We may seem like warmongers to you, doctor, but the only thing I've ever wanted out of a battle is peace and justice. Perhaps you can help us heal more than we hurt."

That was a promise she had made to herself during too many wars to count, finding success in some locales more than others. Angela let herself be shown around the state-of-the-art facilities, all while mulling her choices over, but when a familiar voice carried from the next room over, she stopped right in place. Reinhardt took a second to catch on, grinding to a halt before turning around.

"Doctor, is everything alright?" He asked.

"–you tell me not to worry, Gérard, only to come back with another scar." Amélie sounded more teasing than put out. "Those terrorists need to learn the wrath of a woman scorned."

"I wasn't aware Gérard Lacroix worked here." Angela said, quiet enough to ensure their own conversation wouldn't be overheard.

"Ah, yes. That's him and the wife." Reinhardt let out a low rumble of a laugh. "She's quite the firecracker. Technically not one of our operatives, but Gérard doesn't seem to mind having her at briefings."

Angela intended to let the subject drop there, only for Amélie to come right around the corner. Her hand was resting on Gérard's arm, head tilted up to look him right in the eye, but was snapped out of a sentence mid-word when he raised a hand in greeting. "Reinhardt, you old war dog. Don't tell me they put you back on another mission already."

"No, no. I was showing a guest of ours around." When Reinhardt gestured her way, Angela immediately called up a polite smile. "This is Dr. Angela Ziegler. I'm sure you've heard her name before."

"In a hundred papers and meetings." Gérard said, extending his hand; the offered handshake was firm but not crushing. "It's a honor, doctor. I really hope you'll consider joining us, considering we have a lot more guns than bandages around here."

"Her work is far more complicated than mere bandages." Amélie interjected, visibly hesitating before she looked Angela directly in the eye. "Are you really joining Overwatch?"

"I was considering it." She admitted, unsure if the decision had just become simple or wholly impossible. "They make a very tempting offer."

Much to her shock, Amélie smiled, open and bright as the sun. "You should. They do amazing things here every day, no matter what the news says."

Angela nodded in agreement before she could stop herself. "I'll certainly keep that in mind."

Just then, Gérard's communicator went off, and Amélie was swept away with him into a meeting. For the rest of the day, Angela continued to trail Reinhardt around the building, asking perfunctory questions without ever quite hearing the answer. The choice suddenly made itself when she received an email from one of her connections in the Swiss government, warning that much of the next year's 'experimental' science funding was going to be slashed. While most of the cost could be subsidized by her own savings, access to their facilities was what mattered most, and having to build her own private lab would be nothing short of exorbitant.

And for all her doubts, everyone in Overwatch welcomed her with open arms. Angela was nothing short of stunned at how much freedom she was offered in her research, and forced to admit exposure to their methods spurred her creativity in a way she hadn't experienced in years. Reinhardt's armor was nothing short of a defensive marvel, and within a month, Angela started designing a suit of her own, one that could compress the tools of the surgical suite into the palm of her hand. Sensitivity had to be carefully balanced with practicality, however, and soon enough she split the intended features between the Valkyrie suit and a staff that could be wielded with ease.

Then Reinhardt told her that she needed a codename.

"Are you serious?" Angela knew glaring at him over the top of her lager wasn't particularly intimidating, but there was only so much she could do when they were squished into the corner booth of a local pub – Reinhardt took up three-quarters of it.

"It's not just tradition, Angela. It makes you part of the team." Broad shoulders shrugged before Reinhardt took a sip from his mug, the contents so dark it was nearly black. "You could just go by your first name like I do, if you wish."

No, that was too intimate. Only her friends – and he was one of them now – referred to her as such, but 'Dr. Ziegler' did seem a bit unwieldy for battlefield communications. "I'll think about it."

When she finally came up with a name – Mercy – no small amount of ribbing emerged from the soldiers under her care, but it served its purpose by being short and to the point. Angela thought little of the implications until the first briefing she had with Gérard. His business with Talon meant that their paths rarely crossed; she had nothing to do with terrorists or interrogation and preferred to keep it that way, although that meant her chances to see Amélie were also few and far between. Their relationship was cordial if superficial, but after the briefing ended, Angela found herself taken aside, Amélie's full lips pursed in amusement.

"Mercy, is it? Mercy, _merci_." The syllables rolled across her tongue, aggressively accented. "It suits you."

"I hope so." Angela had already butted heads with a few members of the organization over their methods, but at least her critiques were taken seriously. "Amélie…I never got to thank you for saying I should join Overwatch. It's changed everything."

"It has, hasn't it?" Glancing through the glass wall into the briefing room, Amélie waved at Gérard and smiled. "Maybe fate nudged us into the same Parisian café for a reason, no?"

The words didn't sting, but she had to swallow past a knot in her throat to answer. "Maybe so."

The conversation lasted less than a minute, but after that it was much easier to speak with Amélie, even if it was just stopping to catch up in the halls or sharing a cup of tea.

Perhaps the third time was the charm.

–

Time itself became the enemy when a Talon strike team snatched Amélie right off the street.

Gérard wasn't a stupid man. After their first attempt on his life, he had assigned a pair of Overwatch bodyguards to escort his wife whenever they were apart, but both operatives had been executed with a bullet to the back of the held. A mockingly professional business card engraved with Talon's symbol was left behind at the scene, and on its back a note declared: come find her.

For months, Angela stretched herself nearly to the breaking point, balancing the hours she had to spend healing agents out in the field with assisting in the search for Amélie. There was little she could do as a doctor, but her contacts all over the world extended from village heads to retired spies, and Angela burned almost every favor left to her name to get information out of each and every one of them to no avail. Half a dozen Talon supply caches were destroyed in the process, terrorist after terrorist arrested or eliminated, but none of them had a single scrap of information about Amélie. It was getting to the point that Angela started to entertain the thought that someone else had taken her and merely masqueraded as a member of Talon.

Then with the same sudden shock as her kidnapping, Amélie reappeared at Overwatch's Swiss headquarters, stumbling past security. Surrounded by alarmed guards, she murmured 'have you seen my husband' before passing out.

Rushed into their secure clinic, Angela drew on the deepest reserves of will to start the examination, emotion dialed back behind every clinical wall she could summon. It was only hours later when the test results came back that she realized every horror she'd braced herself for simply wasn't present. Amélie was mildly dehydrated, but woke up from her daze soon after as if she'd only just been asleep. She fumbled with her IV for a moment before Angela caught her hand, and Amélie looked her right in the eye.

"How did I–" Amélie squeezed her eyes shut, like she was trying to picture something. "Mercy, how did I get here?"

Hearing her codename from Amélie was strange, but she answered every question with clarity. There were no sign of brain damage or significant memory loss, although a mild sedative in her system explained the earlier confusion. Eventually Angela ran out of tests, out of excuses to discover more information, and assigned two of her subordinates to keep Amélie under observation while she fetched Gérard.

He wept. She couldn't blame him, considering the stoic demeanor he'd adopted since Amélie vanished, working day in and day out while refusing to rest or talk about what had happened beyond the daily situation reports.

"Is she alright?" Gérard asked, gripping her arm so tight it almost hurt. "Please be honest with me."

"We'll have to keep her here for a few days to ensure there aren't any delayed symptoms – signs of shock or trauma – but she…" Even as it was coming out of her mouth, Angela could scarcely believe it. "Amélie seems to be just fine. She said Talon kept her locked up in a room by herself, but they treated her like a prisoner of war."

"Then why did they do this?" Anger shot through his words, teeth bared and grit. "Why her?"

"I'm not sure." Talon was known well for their cruelty, but it was possible they feared being razed to ash if Amélie was found tortured under their hands. "All I know right now is that your wife is alive and well, which is much more than I dared to hope for. We can discern their motives later."

Gérard straightened up, relaxing his grip. "You're right. And thank you for taking care of her, doctor."

"Of course." Nothing could have stopped her, not after all this.

"She's always been quite fond of you, you know." Gérard's smile was small but genuine. "Whenever you have a new medical breakthrough, it's all I hear about for days on end. Amélie used to talk about her dancing the same way."

Angela parried the words with a smile, directing him towards Amélie's room. After a few sharp words about protecting their privacy to the guard outside, she returned to her laboratory to run the test results a second time. Neural imaging, x-rays, blood tests; nothing, nothing, nothing. Even the sedative used had been remarkably mild, when dosing Amélie with something stronger would have made her far easier to handle. And no matter how Angela worded it, Amélie insisted she knew nothing about her captors' identity beyond their clear allegiance to Talon, explaining that no one ever approached her without a mask or gave a clue to their names.

Gérard consented to her request for a week's quarantine the next day, but after seventy-two hours, Amélie was having none of it. She started arguments with the aides, even refusing breakfast until Angela was called in to find out what was wrong. Back pressed against thin hospital pillows and knees held to her chest, Amélie looked too small for the bed, although her chart declared she'd lost a mere two kilograms in captivity. She had exchanged her hospital gown for clothes Gérard brought after the first day, but none of the jewelry had made it past inspection; too many chains and sharp edges.

"Why am I still here?" Amélie demanded, eyes narrowed to golden slits. "You told me all of the tests came back fine. I'm tired of…looking at empty white walls."

The way her voice hitched caught Angela's ear, but she schooled her face into a calm and professional mask before approaching the bed. "It's just a precaution, Amélie. You were gone for months."

"I just want to go home." She shifted somewhat, arms wrapping tightly around her stomach. "Not be treated like a prisoner by my own husband."

"It was my recommendation, Amélie." Angela said softly.

A hiss of dismay went through Amélie's teeth. "Why?"

"Because when something traumatic happens, it's often our first instinct to repress it." Talon didn't have to torture her to strip away her sense of safety. "But that doesn't mean there won't be symptoms. Shock can have long-term consequences, such as–"

"Spare me the medical lecture." When Amélie's lip curled in a sneer, it gave her the countenance of a wolf. "Do you think I'm a threat or is this about your ego?"

Angela blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You finally got your chance to take me from Gérard." Her laugh was too light, ringing hollow. "I'm surprised you didn't try sooner."

"This has nothing to do with… _us_." It was all Angela could do not to sputter the words, shocked at the insinuation.

"Doesn't it?" Unfolding her legs one at a time, Amélie almost looked relaxed. "While I was sitting in Talon's cell, I had a lot of time to think. I went through my life, year by year. That day we met in the café ran in my head like a loop."

The ghost of a smile curved Amélie's lips before she looked Angela right in the eye. "I was no one to you, wasn't I? Someone you could be with without complicating your life. Because who would ever expect _you_ would have a fling with some second-rate dancer in Paris?"

"Amélie–" The name rose like a reflex, sticking in her throat.

"It was the same with Gérard." Amélie continued, ignoring the interruption. "He was on leave after a mission and just wanted to see pretty women up on a stage, so he bought tickets to my company's show. I caught his eye, but he didn't really come to see me."

"If that was true, I never would have returned your letters." She had no care to defend Gérard's motivations, but she certainly knew the reasons for her own. "You…have no idea how often your messages were the only bright spot of my day, Amélie. I would spend hours surrounded by sheer brutality, but I could always come back to my tent and find a message from you. A moment's peace."

"So I was useful." It was a flat statement, absent affect. "But you only ever stayed the once. You never even offered to come to Paris again until I told you I was engaged."

"I didn't know you wanted me to." There had been a few teasing implications, but any sort of relationship would have been untenable. Her work – her duty – always had to come first, when weighing her heart against the world. "We were never–"

"I suppose that's the only real difference between the two of you. Gérard asked me to come with him." Amélie's lips pursed into a thin line. "You simply kept me tethered."

She took a deep breath, then two, but the last thread of her patience snapped.

"If you want to leave, then consider yourself discharged." Angela growled, anger piercing her through like a spear. "This was supposed to be for your own good."

" _Primum non nocere_." Amélie hissed back.

Without a second's hesitation, she took the chart from the end of the bed and scrawled her signature at the bottom, noting that the patient was checking out against medical advice. Ink bled through the page from too much pressure, but Angela thought nothing of it before tossing the clipboard at Amélie's feet and storming out of the room.

Reinhardt found her in the lab an hour later, staring off into space at the perpetually turning Overwatch logo projected onto the wall. She had washed her face twice but refused to do her makeup again; having it ruined once in a day was quite enough. While he wasn't a subtle man by any means, the broad hand that rested on her shoulder was still unmistakably kind.

"Heard you and Amélie got into some sort of scrap?" It sounded like he didn't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "Thought that seemed a bit mad, so I wanted to check on you."

Angela waved her hand dismissively. "She thinks I'm keeping her…hostage here."

"Ah." He huffed at that, shaking his head. "Well, that's not a fair thing to say, but after being locked up by Talon…I'm sure she just wants to be home, Angela. It's nothing to do with you."

Certainly it was, but she had never told him about the nature of their previous relationship, and venting about such a thing now would be inappropriate. "I think it is me, Reinhardt. After so many years of seeing those who were tortured and captured, I simply can't believe that she would come out of it alright."

"Take our blessings where they come, huh?" Reinhardt gave her shoulder a light squeeze. "It's late, Angela. If you really want to drown your sorrows, I'll buy you a pint down the street."

Immediately, her mind conjured up all the reasons that one shouldn't drink when angry or upset, but there was nothing she wanted more right now than to shut off that constant, analytical voice in the back of her head. "I'd like that."

Some cruel sense of timing lead her out of the lab behind Reinhardt right as Amélie was leaving, fingers entwined tightly with Gérard's. Every screaming instinct demanded that she turn away, take another exit out of the building, but before she could, the distance was closed between them and Amélie whispered, " _Au revoir, ma chère_."

" _Au revoir_." Angela replied, tasting something bitter on the back of her tongue.

–

The last time she saw Amélie was at Gérard's funeral.

It was her own scalpel that performed the autopsy, confirming what the police dispatched to the scene immediately suspected. He had been strangled in his sleep after being drugged, so thoroughly sedated that even a man of his strength had no hope of fighting back. Two empty wine glasses were by the bedside table, the first marked with his fingerprints and the other belonging to his wife, dark lipstick marring the rim. There was no sign of a break-in or any other assailant, and the neighbors never reported any disturbance during the night in question.

By all accounts, Amélie had left the house just after dawn, telling the doorman she was off to buy the morning's bread, and never returned. When call after call from headquarters went unanswered, Overwatch tapped local law enforcement for a cursory check, and they found every door unlocked, leaving the house ripe for the picking and Gérard's body cold as ice in his own bed. After dozens of attempts, Talon had finally succeeded in assassinating him, using the hands of the one he had trusted the most.

Angela hadn't come to terms with it until she was stitching the Y-incision in his chest, the constant loop of needle and thread allowing her mind to wander. Every single piece of evidence pointed to Amélie, and as soon as her findings were released, phrases like 'sleeper agent' were being thrown around left and right. She quietly waited for the hammer to fall, for someone to blame her for allowing Amélie to leave Overwatch custody, but the grief over Gérard's loss and rage directed at Talon was never turned her way. Plans for a memorial were immediately drawn up, and it was decided the honors for him would be attended in full uniform.

Then they would find his killer.

She felt ill at ease standing in the Valkyrie suit over Gérard's grave, although he was far from the first she had buried. Many had died directly under her own hand – it was expected for surgeons, especially those who spent most of their time in triage – but the guilt paled in comparison to this moment; for past patients, Angela knew to her bones that she had done her absolute best, pushing against the very limits of human possibility, but this was simple and undeniable failure. Amélie manipulated her emotions, toying with her until anger overwhelmed all sense of reason and violated her oath.

What had Talon _done_ to transform the woman she knew into a murderer, both keen and callous?

Torbjörn was saying his piece now, telling the story about how he and Gérard had met, but Angela couldn't keep her eyes off the casket, hands locked together in her lap. She would have prayed if she had ever seen any use for it, but that was only a reminder that true resurrection remained beyond her reach. The technology she developed could jumpstart the heart, reignite fading electrical impulses, and even regenerate punctured organs within minutes, but it was of no use to those who had already passed through rigor mortis.

A flicker of black moved in the corner of her vision.

Angela straightened up in her seat, immediately glancing around to see if anyone else had noticed, but they were all focused on Torbjörn's speech. Two teams of Overwatch soldiers were on the far perimeter of the graveyard, ensuring that the ceremony wasn't interrupted by the media, but there was no alarmed static from any of their radios. In fact, they all looked bored, expressions guarded behind tinted sunglasses, and she was about to relax again when the same flicker drew her eye towards a tree surrounded by graves.

In the deepest part of the shadows, Amélie was standing there, and the second their gazes met, she smiled.

For a second, Angela was convinced this was a hallucination. It happened more often in the grieving than many people cared to admit, but when her fingers twitched against her own knee, wanting to reach to the opposite wrist for the red alert button waiting there, Amélie put a finger to her lips, asking for silence. Stillness.

Tears stung at the corner of Angela's eyes, then spilled down her cheeks in hot lines. Here she was supposed to be Mercy, the only one among them who never called for violence, holding strong when the rest clamored for vengeance. Except Gérard's death had been no accident, and the smile on Amélie's lips was one of triumph, not surrender. Talon's cruelty had warped her into something hungry and implacable, eager for more.

Her eyes burned, too clogged with tears to see, but when she roughly wiped them away with the back of her hand, Amélie was gone.

The rest of the funeral passed without incident, and when no one else spoke of seeing her, Angela could only hold her tongue. She didn't want it to be real.

–

So it's not until the first time Mercy meets Widowmaker that her heart truly breaks.


End file.
